


Intersection—1947

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Castle
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Ships Passing In the Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 18:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: Disparate paths cross in New York City, 1947.





	Intersection—1947

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kind of cheat, I guess. Something imagined based on the Blue Butterfly (4 x 14) and the end of first season of Marvel’s Agent Carter. See the end for a bit more on this.

“It’s 7:30, Carter.”

The admonition came from the deepest shadows of the already-dim office. It made her jump, quiet as it was. It made her slam the desk drawer with enough force to call absolutely unwanted attention to the move. Certainly the attention of any given federal agent, and most certainly _his_ attention.

“Agent Sousa!” She pressed a palm to her chest, fluttering a little bit, more out of habit than anything. “You startled me half to death.”

“ _And,”_ her fellow agent—the only one in more than name—went on as if she hadn’t spoken, ”you were here at 7:30 this morning when I got in.” He propped himself against her desk, setting his crutch pointedly aside,a sure sign she wouldn’t be getting out of this easily. “All work . . . ?” He let his gaze fall briefly to the drawer that hadn’t quite closed after all.

“All _paper_ work.” She forced a chuckle as she made a blind sweep along the lip of the drawer in a hasty attempt to tuck whatever obstruction was holding it open further inside. “You know the dance. I brute force my way into actual field work, and still the filing somehow falls to me as far as Chief Thompson is concerned . . .”

“And he does prefer blondes.” Sousa nodded down at the drawer where, sure enough, a few platinum strands managed to catch the low light from her desk lamp.

“Well, that . . .” She stumbled over the excuse. Over half a dozen easy lies she didn’t want to tell. Half a dozen easy lies that he, of all people, wouldn’t have believed anyway. “Daniel, it’s . . .”

“It’s something you’re not going to tell me about,” he cut in crisply.

“There’s nothing to tell. Really.” She offered him a weak smile along with the words. Affirmation that it was some version of the truth, and it was. 

She’d been holding tight to the loose ends of the case for days, driven to find at least one she could tie up. Driven make some kind of amends for the ruin Dottie Underwood and Johann Fennhoff had left in their wake.

“It’s not on you, Peggy," he said, reading her mind with unnerving ease, as usual.

"On whom, then?" Her temper boiled over. Her frustration with all the bureaucracy. With Thompson and his self-interested apathy. Daniel was the least deserving target possible. She knew that, but she'd been at this for weeks with almost nothing to show for it. "Who takes responsibility for the collateral damage of the high and mighty?"

"The SSR has liaisons who work with local . . ." He trailed off, no more convinced by theboilerplate than Peggy herself was. They'd both seen too much. Looked away from too much. He met her gaze and saw his own frustration magnified in it. "Anything I can do?"

"Not likely," she said, softening the refusal with a shake of her head and a smile that reached her eyes this time. "There doesn't seem to be anything _I_ can do. Not exactly in the market for an accomplice, I'm afraid."

"And your blonde alter-ego?" He fiddled with his crutch, knocking out a rhythm against the wooden side of the desk. Not quite letting it go. "Maybe she needs a sidekick?"

"She's just . . ."

Peggy hesitated, weighing the risk to him and his career against the wisdom of a little back-up. Of someone at least knowing to look for her if she didn't turn up in the morning. But the eagerness in his eyes—the same desire for more they'd been dancing around for weeks— decided her against it. Better to go it alone. To shield him from the consequences of her foolishness, and if she came out of it unscathed, well . . . there'd be time enough for "more" then. 

"Just asking some questions," she resumed briskly. "The kind an unaccompanied lady might find greater success in getting answers to."

The corners of his mouth turned down at that. "And the unaccompanied lady isn't worried about the kinds of characters . . . "

"She's a very _capable_ unaccompanied lady," Peggy snapped, sorry for it almost before the words left her mouth.

Daniel beat her to the apology, even so.

"I know she is."He spoke swiftly. With conviction."She's the best unaccompanied lady I've ever had the pleasure of . . ." He broke off, blushing hard enough to show, even in the dim light. "Just . . . be smart, Peg." The air between them grew thick around his plea. He glanced at her sidelong, then looked away. One of them always looked away, but at least this time it actually managed to cut the tension. "Wouldn't wanna have to arrest you again."

One kind of tension, anyway.

"Again, Agent Sousa?" She gave him a wide-eyed, playful look as she stood scooping the platinum wig and a handful of items from the drawer into the wide, waiting mouth of the valise she’d tucked under her desk. "Wouldn't that require arresting me— _successfully_ arresting me, mind you—a first time?"

 

* * *

 

The blonde at the end of the bar had something on her mind. Something big and not so nice, if the set of her jaw and the grip she had on her rocks glass were anything to go by.

_Not your problem, Joe._

The bartender's gaze flicked toward the snapshot tucked into the mirror behind the register to give the reminder a little extra oomph. They hadn't been back in New York long. Neither of them was exactly sure they _ought_ to be back, but all the same, neither one of them could stay away.

_Definitely not your problem._

He and his spotless white bar cloth followed the brass rail down to the far end of the place, but something about the blonde dragged his attention back her way, again and again.

It wasn't her looks. A glance out of the corner of his eye told him that much. She was pretty enough. Snub nose and a mouth she had to work to keep from turning up at the corners. A no-frills hairdo that added a few years. Probably intentional. Probably meant to argue with the clean-scrubbed, girl-next-door look God seemed to have given her.

It was the eyes, he decided after a couple too many stolen glances for it to be anything like smart. She had knockout eyes. Dark and intense.

 _Troubled,_ whispered the part of him that couldn't help it. The part that hadn't quite settled down to life behind the bar. But the part of him that had answered right back. _More like_ trouble . . . _Trouble you don't need and neither does Vera._ Joe’s gaze snapped back to the picture, his attention back to brass and wood and glassware, all of it waiting on him for a little spit and polish.

 _Viola. Not Vera,_ he reminded himself, leaning into his work. _Jerry, not Joe. And there ain't one of you needs whatever trouble's brewing down that way._

Needed or not, though, trouble seemed to find Jerry Maddox every bit as easily as it had always managed to find Joe Flynn.

"I _said_ no thank you."

He turned, as much at the warning in the blonde's tone as something else. There was something to her voice. Something unusual enough to snag his ear and leave him giving the lady another once over against his better judgment.

"Help you, friend?" Joe— _Jerry_ —made his way swiftly past the register. He hit the end of the bar just in time to lean in between the blonde and one of his least-favorite regulars. He kept his smile wide as he slapped the rag down forcefully enough to send the clown teetering back a step or two.

"Yeah. You can." The man slurred his way through the order, digging for his wallet all the while. Missing his pocket entirely on the first three tries. "You can get me a Macallan and _this_ hot little number whatever lady thing she's drinking." 

"No can do, buddy." Joe's glance slid sideways to catch the blonde's eye as he reached without looking to fetch the bottle from the middle shelf. "I'll get your single malt. Happy to, but Belinda here? She's my cousin up from Tallahassee." He risked a wink in the blonde's direction, proud of that little bit of invention, and the none-too-pleased look she shot back only fed the fire of inspiration. "Headed to the convent in the morning. Not looking to have the good sisters cracking the old ruler over my knuckles if they get a whiff of the sauce on her."

"Convent!" The drunk drew himself up, turning the stink eye on the blonde. "You a Catholic or something?"

None-too-pleased or not, the blonde didn't miss a beat. "Novitiate of the Sisters of St. Casimir, starting tomorrow," she said sweetly.

The pious lift of those knockout eyes was a nice touch. At least Joe thought so. Before he remembered he had no business thinking anything about her eyes and whatever trouble she was hip deep in, anyway.

"Well that's . . ." The man gave a bleary blink, abruptly entering the melancholy phase of his drunk. He stared down at the crumpled bills on the bar, down at his newly arrived drink, and back up at the blonde. "That's just a hell of a thing," he muttered as he stumbled away. 

The blonde watched him warily, all the way to the door. "Belinda." She turned back to the bar, her stern glare not quite concealing a playful smile. "Convent. _Tallahassee?_ "

"Good a cover story as any, right?" Joe lifted the untouched Macallan. "Scotch? The good stuff. Shame to let it go to waste?" He held it out invitingly. 

She hesitated, just barely, then pushed her own empty aside. "God, yes."

Joe palmed the drunk's warm, crumpled bills and set the glass down in front of her. He moved back down the bar, leaving her to a fresh drink and whatever she had on her mind. 

"So. Not Tallahassee." He'd meant to leave her to it, anyway, but there was still the matter of that something unusual about her _._ There was still the hard-knock truth that trouble seemed to find him wherever he went, no matter what shingle he happened to be hanging out. "Not stateside at all, right? Not for long, anyway." He rode out her startled, wary look, arching an eyebrow as his hand drifted to the old familiar ache in his hip. "World ain't as big as it used to be."

She folded before too long. Her mouth turned down at the corners hard enough that he wondered how many drinks he'd have to spot her before he felt right with the world.

"That bad?" She took a hard swallow of the scotch, but not before he caught a familiar note or two. A particular lilt that connected the dots between a turn of phrase and the way she held her self. “The accent.”

"Not bad at all." Joe gave her a side glance, trying to read her with indifferent success. "Close enough for government work."

Her spine stiffened at that. Those knockout eyes went hard and flat enough to send him backpedaling. To leave his attention absolutely fixed on the pristine expanse of bar under his suddenly busy palm.

"Depends on who you're looking to fool," he said in as casual a tone as he could muster. But trouble wouldn't let him shut his mouth at just that. "And why."

Her end of the bar went silent long enough that he turned, half expecting her to be gone. She wasn't though. She was still there in all her something-unusual glory, swirling the last of her scotch.

"No one, at the moment. As to why . . ." She downed the amber liquid and flashed him something close to a real smile. She let the last words slip out in something close to her real voice. "I'm apparently a terrible judge of what's my problem and what is most definitely not."

She poured herself off the stool, slipped a few bills on to the bar, and was gone.

"You and me both, sister," Joe muttered to himself as he watched her go. "You and me both."

* * *

"Slow night, mister?" 

The voice came from nowhere. It came from the far side of the pitch-black back office. Joe flinched hard enough to set the coin from the till jingling in its pouch. But the snick of the green-shaded desk lamp came quick enough. The back of the space flooded with light and set his heart pounding for a whole different reason.

"Ver . . ."

"Viola." She swung from side to side in the creaking wooden desk chair, _tsk_ ing like a schoolmarm and taking his breath away. "Babe, you know you've gotta be . . ."

"Careful. Viola." He was on her before the words could make their way across the room. She was in his arms long before that. "Gotta be careful with you, for sure."

"Except you're not." Her soft, trilling laugh buzzed against the skin of his throat. Buzzed right under his collar. "Got in here, didn't I?" she said. Not quite playful, and trying hard to be.

"He's dead, sweetheart." Joe muttered the words into her hair, trying to convince himself as much as anyone. "Gang's busted. No one looking anymore. Not for Joe Flynn and not for Jerry Maddox."

"Not for Ver . . ."

He stopped her mouth with a kiss.

"Viola," he whispered fiercely. "Gotta be . . ."

"Careful." She stopped his mouth in turn. Arched an eyebrow and raised her left hand. The ring with its tiny diamond flashed in the dim light, making his stomach do flips with it. "Gotta be careful, _Jerry._ "

**Author's Note:**

> So, the 31st came up quickly, and then end of the month was unexpectedly hard. I had several things that I thought I might finish up, and then, of course, started something entirely new today that I got deep into, but not deep enough to finish. This was my Plan B. I’d really like this to be a multi chap with a tiny bit of actual plot, but I don’t know that it’ll ever be that. In any case, I think this stands alone as a weird crossover thing. I hope it does, anyway.


End file.
